


The Thirteenth Prince

by NineOfSpades



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ...romance?, Alternate Universe, Cadavers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Plague, Sherlock Being Sherlock, death mentions, fairy tale AU, given it's about sherlock, medieval hygiene, obviously, sick people, so very bad hygiene
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-06 00:14:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10320875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineOfSpades/pseuds/NineOfSpades
Summary: Without looking away, the sorcerer spoke:“You are not a prince.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews and messages make the world go round, the electrons spin, and the ink from authors' pens flow.

Once upon a time, there was a wicked sorcerer who lived in a tall black castle.  The kingdoms around him lived in fear. 

Every year, the sorcerer would demand that a prince or princess be sent to stay with him for twelve months.  Or longer, if the poor soul wished.  The poor soul never wished.  

At the end of the year the villagers living nearest the black castle would gather around to watch as the prince or princess ran out of the black double-doors, fleeing as if wild dogs were nipping at their heels.  The kinder villagers waited with blankets and mugs of hot cocoa.  The less kind waited with dozens of questions. 

"What was it like?"  "Did you catch a glimpse of his spellbooks?"  "What was he like?"  "What did he _do_ to you?" 

The answers were fairly constant.  The stay began comfortably - it was a large castle, after all.  Soft beds with down mattresses and plump pillows, delicious food that appeared mysteriously on the dining table every morning, strains of lovely music in the air every now and again. 

Then, one day, the sorcerer would appear.  Tall, slender, and clad all in black, his cape billowed behind him like the wings of a bat, and his collars were high enough to reach his jawline.  His skin was sallow, unnaturally dark.  And, as if that wasn't enough, he wore a cap with _two_ brims.  The terrified royal would whisper that it was a sign of the sorcerer's two-faced, changeling personality - some even guessed that the man had literally two faces, the better to watch them all with, or perhaps because of an experiment gone wrong. 

The sorcerer's eyes were two chips of obsidian, cold and merciless, and they saw straight into the heart of any man or woman.  Any soul who stood before him could only watch helplessly as he read their deepest, darkest secrets off their faces and smiled with a knowing that was not of this earth. 

The food would appear more irregularly then.  Occasionally, the royal, wandering the castle, would find body parts, still dripping with blood, in places where they shattered the illusion of normalcy - thumbs on the windowsills of sitting rooms, livers in the stables, toes in the kitchen, and once, one horrified princess reported, a human heart in the unlit fireplace.   The music turned sour and discordant, sometimes sounding in the dead of night, or at the crack of dawn.  

Some days, the sorcerer would drag his hapless victim with him through the streets of their kingdom, casting a spell over them that would ensure they would not be seen.  He would then point out people and describe them, minute details of their life down to what they had for breakfast. 

“I don’t know how he knew,” they would cry, “but he _knew_!” 

…

In the Year of the Purple Bear, the five neighboring kingdoms had finally exhausted their heirs.  All twelve of the princes and princesses who were past the age of adulthood had stayed with the sorcerer for at least one year, and none were willing to ever set foot in that godforsaken castle again.  It was the turn of Queen Catherine XVII to send one of her children to the sorcerer, and she could not for the life of her persuade any of her children to return. 

Well.  Any of her legitimate children. 

"What about..."-- Michelle hesitated before whispering the word, a name that caused her mother anger every time she heard it -- "... _John_?" 

Catherine’s back stiffened, and Michelle flinched, but the blow never came.  

"Yes," said the Queen, "he may still count as a prince."  

…

“Rise,” said the Queen.  John got uncomfortably to his feet. 

“What did you need me for?” 

“ _Do_ I need you?” 

“We haven’t spoken since you disinherited me for wanting to become a physician.”  His face twisted bitterly.  “Am I suddenly useful again?” 

A pause, then the penny dropped. 

“Of course.  The Sorcerer.” 

“Clever boy.” 

John clenched his jaw.  “Who says I’d be willing to do this for you?  After all, you’ve refused-” 

“Your nurses are indispensable to you.  I can have them arrested.”  She didn’t look away from her son’s helpless glare.  “On the other hand, I can ensure your office no longer struggles financially.”  She waved a hand. 

Two servants stepped out from the curtained area behind a throne, carrying between them a large wooden chest.  They set it down carefully and made a big show of opening it. 

Inside, gold and jewels glittered, easily worth a fourth part of a kingdom. 

“You’d be allowed to bring as much as you could carry on your person,” the Queen finished. 

John scowled.  “Fine.” 

…

The next morning, John was carefully dressed in silk and satin.  The royal hairdressers brushed and trimmed his hair as best they could, cut short as it was for practicality; the beauticians primped and powdered his face.  The tailors wept at his increased weight – seven and a half pounds, they cried, now all their measurements were a fourth of an inch off – and did the best they could with the clothes they’d made.  The jewelers brought their finest wares, and the Queen herself chose stones that would lend the most authenticity. 

It was all a bit much, John thought.  He felt like he was going off to get married, not to live with a supposedly evil sorcerer for a year. 

The Royal Guard escorted him to the black gates, behind which lay the black double-doors, with as much fanfare as if they had been escorting a legitimate prince to a foreign country.  The gates slowly opened, with no signs of outside assistance, and the doors soon followed. 

The guards backed away slowly.  John rode through the gates, dismounted, and walked through the doors alone. 

Most princes at this stage would stable their horse, then sneak around in search of a bedchamber, desperately hoping the sorcerer would ignore them. 

John wasn’t most princes. 

“Hello?”  He called, stepping around a corner into what appeared to be an indoor garden that had, if you will pardon the pun, gone to seed.  There were drooping, blackened stems everywhere, dead leaves littering the ground.  Mostly poisonous plants, he noted, with detached interest. 

John left the room, went down a long hallway, turned another corner, and thought he heard a faint noise.  A light wooden door opened onto a spiral staircase, some ambient light filtering out from below.  He went downstairs and found himself in some rather dismal cellars, torches flickering in their sconces.  A faint thudding noise grew louder.  Following the noise, John eventually found himself in what could only be the dungeons.  A table covered with a bloodstained white cloth was at the far end, a man bending over a cadaver with an open chest wound. 

John paused, fascinated, wondering if he should introduce himself, but before he could decide, the man straightened up and turned around. 

He looked like an ordinary man without the black collared cape, a bit tall and thin, perhaps; darker-skinned, a foreigner, but not a Moor.  His cheekbones were stark in the torchlight, his hair having the distinct shape of hair that has been flattened under a cap for too long.  The only unusual thing about him was his eyes – small, black, intelligent eyes, flickering over John in a way that made him feel small, as if under the scrutiny of a crowd of a thousand, like he was waiting to perform at his mother's tournaments again.  He straightened his back, for what it was worth, and planted his feet apart, meeting those analytical eyes squarely. 

Without looking away, the sorcerer spoke: 

“You are not a prince.” 

“Because I came down here alone?”  John cocked his head, smiling amicably. 

The sorcerer raised his hands to his face, then quickly dropped them, remembering the bloodstains.  “Your clothes are of a style three years out of fashion.  Your jewelry is flawless, but when your hand shifted just now, the skin beneath your rings was tan.  You aren’t accustomed to wearing such riches; the way you hold yourself – it’s unnatural for you; uncomfortable.  There’s a tear on your sleeve from where it dragged against something sharp – you weren’t careful with it; that sort of care takes decades of wearing the right clothes.  But you’ve managed to avoid getting a speck of dust on your doublet… Who are you _really_?” 

A small tendril of trepidation snaked its way into John’s stomach, but not nearly as much as he should have felt.  Bloodstains aside, it was difficult to be afraid of the man when he looked so _confused._  

“I was born a prince,” John said easily.  “I was disinherited some time ago.  Mother was a bit… old-fashioned.” 

The sorcerer’s discerning glance passed over John from head to toe.  He nodded slowly.  “I suppose that is… acceptable,” he said.  "When did you get back from the War on Infidels?" 

“Eight years ago,” said John.  “Before I was disinherited.” 

“Honors?  Ah, yes.  Medal of Valor.” 

“Quite right.”  John tried not to sound too impressed.  He was a man of science, and it wouldn’t do for him to look like a gape-mouthed yokel.  “How did you know that?” 

The sorcerer simply smiled enigmatically.  “Can I interest you in supper?” 

“Actually, I was hoping you could tell me about this.”  He walked over to the cadaver.  “Blunt trauma, I presume?  A large, heavy object, propelled from some distance…” He peered at it more closely.  “But the cause of death appears to be…”

“Asphyxiation,” the sorcerer interrupted.  “The man was hanged for stealing a side of beef.  I picked him up earlier today to experiment on.” 

“Ah.  That’s illegal, isn’t it?  Damaging human bodies goes against the word of God and whatnot.” 

The sorcerer scowled.  “The laws of this land are made by idiots who oppose progress,” said he.  “I’d never learn anything if I followed the letter of the law.” 

John nodded.  “Fair enough.” 

The sorcerer looked astonished.  “You don’t… mind?” 

“Mind?  Not at all.  Anything in the name of scientific progress.” 

The eyes, sharp as a sword tip, focused on him again.  “You’re a medical man, aren’t you?” 

“Private physician.  I run a place a few miles away.” 

“That would explain the lack of any running or screaming.  Been practicing long?” 

“Seven years.” 

The gaze turned admiring.  “You’ve done it too, then, haven’t you?  Taken someone’s body for research?” 

“Someone’s _dead_ body.  It’s-”

“Who do you go to?  Don’t play dumb; I know you have a provider.” 

John sighed.  It was said that the sorcerer could tell when one was lying.  “Wiggin.” 

“Stoop-shouldered, looks like a heap of rags?” 

“The same.” 

“He’s overcharging you,” the sorcerer said matter-of-factly.  “Tell him I’ll have words with him if he doesn’t give you my rates.” 

John couldn’t help but grin.  For all that everyone claimed the sorcerer was wicked, said wicked sorcerer had helped his practice more than anyone in his family ever had. 

…

Supper was laid out by the time they came upstairs, an elderly lady removing dishes one by one from the table. 

“You’ve kept your guest downstairs for so long,” the lady said reproachfully, “the food’s already cold.” 

“Sorry,” said John.  “I didn’t realize- the others said the food appeared magically; I didn’t think I’d keep anyone waiting.” 

The lady tutted.  “Their mothers have a lot to answer for,” she said.  “I’m Mrs. Hudson, by the way.” 

“Oh,” said the sorcerer.  “This is… Harry, Michelle, and then the charts wouldn’t have shown your name after eight years ago, so something from earlier… Jack?” 

“John.” 

“Right.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, dear.” Mrs. Hudson smiled. 

“Mrs. Hudson was my father’s housekeeper, and then my brother’s,” the sorcerer explained.  “I inherited her along with the estate when they passed.” 

“Condolences.” 

The sorcerer shook his head.  “It was a long time ago.”  They sat down at the same end of the table, the sorcerer at the head, John at his right hand.  Mrs. Hudson hesitated before resignedly allowing them to help themselves to the cold food.  “Plague,” he elaborated. 

“The same Plague that you saved the five kingdoms from?” said John, interested.  “The Seaworthy Plague?” 

The sorcerer scowled.  “I haven’t _saved_ the kingdoms yet,” he said, grudging.  “It’s still out there.  Once I’ve eradicated it entirely I’ll be able to rest on my laurels.  In the meantime-”

“In the meantime,” interrupted John, “you’ll continue dropping heavy things on corpses to see how long it takes for their ribs to crack.” 

The sorcerer smiled.  “Precisely.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally updated! If you've been following this work (...sorry...), the first chapter got extended. I still have not done a lick of editing, and I apologize for that. It'll happen. Eventually. Maybe.

The next few weeks were pleasant.  John amused himself exploring the castle and strolling through the grounds, which seemed to be an equal mix of lovely gardens and terrifying swamps.  Some days, he’d find the sorcerer, or vice versa, and John would watch as the sorcerer performed his experiments.  Some nights, he’d hear unearthly music carrying through the halls, and be lulled to sleep. 

Once, the sorcerer asked John’s assistance with an unusual experiment. 

 “I’ll have to lay these fingers out to dry,” he said.  “Would you mind leaving them on an upstairs windowsill for me?” 

John took the fingers.  “Is this why all the others saw body parts lying around everywhere?  Your experiments?” 

“For the first few years,” the sorcerer admitted.  “After that… well.  It was rather funny.” 

John choked back a laugh.  “It’s not nice,” he admonished.  “Ordinary people are a bit unsettled by dismembered body parts.” 

“Ordinary people are boring.”  The sorcerer turned back to the fingerless hands on his table.  

…

Soon, John ran into Mrs. Hudson again at the dining table, fretting over the uneaten dishes. 

“He’s been in his lab for days,” she said disapprovingly.  “He’ll work himself to death at this rate.” 

“I’ll get him,” John promised, and went downstairs, to where the sorcerer was whipping a corpse. 

“Oh,” said the sorcerer.  “It’s you.”  He carefully lay down the whip.  “Mrs. Hudson must have been truly desperate to recruit you in her futile endeavor.”  But he followed John upstairs, so John supposed it wasn’t entirely futile.

They talked about the Plague again.  John quickly realized that the sorcerer was just as desperately eager to discuss it as he was to avoid the subject. 

“Why ‘Seaworthy’?” 

“It was a bit of a joke when I first coined it,” the sorcerer explained.  “The Plague originated in my homeland, across the sea.  I was immune.  My biological parents passed away when I was fourteen, but not before sending me on a ship with a few others.  One of them-” he blinked, throat working.  “One of them brought it with her unknowingly.  She died.  The disease spread.  The man who took me in, Lord Holmes – he- he treated me as a son.  His other son Mycroft taught me how to make deductions.  We’d make a game out of it, figuring out who passerby were and where they were going.”  He paused again.  “I tried my hardest to save them.  I didn’t realize how strong it was.” 

“Is that why you worked so hard to cure everyone who had it?” 

The sorcerer looked surprisingly grave.  “if I could beat the Plague, if I could free society of it, I’d feel that my life had reached its summit, and be prepared to turn to some more placid line in life.  But never have I been so hard-pressed by an opponent.” The sorcerer’s expression grew dark.  “The root of this Plague eludes my best efforts.” 

“Have you got any thoughts?” 

“The Seaworthy Plague started from the royal families last time.  I suspected a food was the carrier, something the poor wouldn’t get to eat – venison, pork, a rare spice – or possibly wine or a sweetmeat, and then it would have spread to the servants…”  He pressed his fingers together, lost in thought.  “…maybe those who finished the leftovers got it, or the cooking staff who tasted it.  But then how would it have spread outside the walls of the castle?  Surely no one _ate_ the servants.  _Think!_ ”  He got up and paced back and forth. 

“That’s _enough,_ Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson chided.  “Do sit down and finish your dinner.  You’ve been working long enough.” 

“Sorry,” John said meekly. 

There was a brief lull in the conversation, then John asked,

“Why princes and princesses?  I mean, why make royal descendants stay with you?  Not that I’m complaining, but aren’t they usually a pain to deal with?” 

The sorcerer raised an eyebrow.  “It’s because I want to remind the monarchs of my tyrannical grip on what they hold dear,” he deadpanned. 

“Sherlock!”  Mrs. Hudson scolded. 

“S’that your name?” 

The sorcerer scowled.  

“I didn’t realize you had a name,” John added.  “I mean, I suppose in hindsight that was a bit silly of me, but…”

“No, it’s understandable,” said the sorcerer.  “Wicked sorcerers don’t usually have things as mundane as names.” 

“You’re not wicked,” said John quietly. 

“I hold kingdoms hostage with the threat of the most dangerous plague known to man.  Hardly a sign of goodness.” 

“You hold the Plague in check,” John corrected, “and require only companionship for reimbursement.  Personally, I’d ask for payment.” 

The sorcerer snorted.  “Yes, and tearing families apart and forcing royal children to stay with me against their will is better.” 

“First off, we’re hardly children, and secondly, didn’t you say the Plague originated with a royal family?  That’s why you wanted princes, isn’t it?  To make sure we didn’t start another wave of the Plague?” 

He didn’t deny it this time.  “These kingdoms are ridiculous,” he said through a mouthful of potatoes.  “Your royalty refuses to _bathe_ unless I threaten them.  Bathing _prevents_ illness; it doesn’t spread it.”  He narrowed his eyes at John in sudden suspicion.  “You do bathe, don’t you?” 

“I- of course I bloody well _bathe_!  I’m a physician!” 

“Medicine is unbelievably backwards here,” the sorcerer complained.  “Your country hasn’t even invented anesthetics.” 

“Invented what?” 

“Painkillers.” 

John frowned.  “Why would a doctor want to kill pain?  Pain is the only way we can figure out what’s going on with a patient.” 

“Not _permanently,_ ” the sorcerer said impatiently.  “It stops a patient’s pain for around two hours, and then you can operate on them.  It’s better than hiring clods to hold them down while they scream their heads off when you cut them open.” 

John blinked.  “Huh.  That sounds incredibly useful.  How is it made?” 

“I’m attempting to rediscover a variant of it at the moment.  I don’t yet have a way of importing the ingredients, but perhaps there are substitutes endemic to this region.”  The sorcerer leaned forward, food forgotten.  “They’re in the form of a combination of herbs and roots that the patient chews for its juices – the rest of it is spat out, but-”

“SHERLOCK!’  The mild-mannered housekeeper slammed her hands on the table, looking so fearsome that Sherlock started.  “Eat,” she commanded, and he obeyed immediately. 


	3. Chapter 3

One night, John heard the discordant sounds his predecessors had warned him about. The screeching woke him before first light, and for a moment, he remembered raised scimitars gouging streaks into his armor. The thought prevented him from going back to sleep. He got up.

Outside, in the hallway, a bizarre sight greeted him. The sorcerer was leaping about in the corridor, turning in circles, a fiddle under his chin as he sawed away at it as though the instrument had done him a personal injustice. The fiddle screamed under the torture, like a thousand dying cats.

The sorcerer paused for a moment, bow drooping by his side, staring in front of him intently. John raised his hands and clapped, too slowly to be proper applause.

The sorcerer started, turned, stared at John in shock. “I- sorry, did I- did I wake you?”

“No, it’s perfectly fine,” said John. “A racket like that right outside my door at three in the morning couldn’t possibly have woken me.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, staring at his feet. “I couldn’t sleep. My mind was racing. The playing – it’s cathartic; fits my mood.”

John sighed.

“It’s alright,” he said. “Only, next time, would you mind staying downstairs when you play?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, shamefaced, and took his instrument down with him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! Unfortunately, there'll be more yet - my finals are coming up. Hope this maybe makes up for it a little bit?

By the second month, John began to wonder why the sorcerer hadn’t taken him out to try and deduct people.

It wasn’t that he was jealous, he told himself. He just wanted to watch the deductive process. He brought the matter up the next time he ran into the sorcerer.

“I stopped after the seventh royal called me a creepy know-all and ran away and got himself lost,” the sorcerer sniffed. “It was too much trouble.”

“Well, I promise not to run away…”

The sorcerer smiled, and John reflected that the uncannily knowing gaze seemed to have lost its sharp edges. Or, rather, it had turned into something comforting – he still felt exposed every time the sorcerer looked at him, stripped bare down to his very soul, but upon seeing naked truths about John and his life, the sorcerer expressed only approval, and sometimes support.

He was a good _friend_ , John thought.  That was what the feeling was.  

“Put this on,” John’s friend said, tossing him a hat and a fake mustache. John caught it instinctively.

“Feels pretty real,” he commented. “Make it yourself?”

“Naturally. Sorry to disappoint, by the way. Doubtless you were anticipating some sort of spell or occult ritual that changed your appearance beyond recognition.”

What John had been thinking was something else entirely, something he’d been thinking for weeks by now. This time, he didn’t hesitate to voice it.

“You’re not a real sorcerer, are you?”

The sorcerer opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it. He paused.

“No,” said Sherlock, finally. “I’m not.”

~~~

The world was different when experienced through the eyes of the role John was playing. Instead of nodding at him respectfully, people looked a bit confused, or even pitying, as they walked past him. The confusion might have had to do with the fact that Sherlock, beside him, was disguised as a beautiful young woman, to John's amusement. His high cheekbones, long lashes, and slender frame allowed him to pull it off. John told himself it was amusement that kept him looking back at his companion every now and then to admire the effect.

For his part, John was dressed as an old beggar, leaning heavily on a cane, an eye patch over one eye and his hair covered by a snowy white wig. His upper lip sported a mustache bushy enough to make the manliest of walruses proud. They made an odd duo, but John had insisted on the outlandish after seeing Sherlock's skill with disguises, and, besides, passerby were dissuaded from staring by John's tendency to limp over to any that stood still long enough and begin telling them stories about the war, in what he imagined to be an appropriately gruff voice.

"Glad to see you're having fun," Sherlock said disdainfully as the fifth passerby made his excuses and ran off.

"Watch your tongue, youngster," said John.  Sherlock face made an extremely peculiar expression.  

The two made their way to the edge of the marketplace and sat down on a bench.  

"Okay," said John, "how about that one?"  He gestured with his cane at a middle-aged woman lugging a tureen of soup.  

Sherlock put a finger to his painted lips delicately.  "Works at the stall over there... No soup stains on her shirt; she's been doing this for a while - the stains that do exist are on the sides of her skirt, made by the fingers of shorter children.  Cheap quality of clothing, torn in places, so her family's living in poverty, but her limbs show a healthy vitality that only exists in the well-fed.  From the state of the monarchy in this country and the lack of opportunity for social advancement it should be safe to assume that her husband hunts illegally."  He looked at John expectantly.  

"Brilliant," said John.  Sherlock ducked his head- whether out of genuine embarrassment or as part of the role he was playing, John wasn't sure.  

"Elementary, really," he said modestly.  

"And what about that one?" John asked, pointing at a wealthy-looking woman, peering about the place with an air of disdain.  

"Married into money - considers herself to have escaped the dull realities of poverty; it must have taken skill on her part to arrange the marriage.  She was expecting rain, but it's a fine day - she's cautious, about the weather at least, prepares for the worst..."  Sherlock's brow furrowed.  "I'm not sure what- Mycroft would have gotten more out of her; I used to let him..." 

"It's alright," said John, cutting off that train of thought hastily.  "That was... amazing.  Brilliant."  

"Really?"  

John couldn't help but notice Sherlock's subtle preening under his praise - perhaps few people in his life had ever complimented him on his deductions before.  

"Of course.  Now what about the man standing over there?"  

The sun set long before the two finished wandering through the city.   


	5. Chapter 5

John didn’t understand why Mrs. Hudson would often leave when he and Sherlock began discussing things.  John was perfectly happy to have the housekeeper nearby, and it always confused him when she’d say things like “time for my nightcap” when it was two hours before she usually went to sleep, or “I’ll leave you to it,” and wink.  It wasn’t like he was plotting anything particularly secret with Sherlock. 

~~~

“Fleas,” said Sherlock triumphantly. 

“Pardon?” 

Sherlock turned to John, resting his elbows on his knees and pressing his fingertips together. 

“Imagine this,” said he.  “A strain of poison grows and festers in the bloodstream of, say, a pig.  Said pig is slaughtered and brought to the table of the Queen.  The royals eat the pig, and the poison enters their blood.  Now, how would that poison continue to spread?  How would the poisoned blood enter another being?” 

“I’m not I follow,” said John.  “Are you saying there’s someone who goes around drinking the blood of royal-” then it hit him.  “ _Oh_ ,” he said.  “ _Fleas_.” 

“There’s the genius of it,” said Sherlock, eyes gleaming.  “It jumps from infected to healthy with ease, and few can spot it before it’s too late.  Sometimes I almost imagine it to possess its own intelligence.” 

“Hypothetically, if it was intelligent, wouldn’t it be amiss to slaughter it without giving it a chance to defend itself?” 

“All that it could possibly have to say has already crossed my mind,” said Sherlock darkly.  “Its destruction remains inevitable.” 

“What will you do once you’ve eradicated the Plague?” 

Sherlock snorted.  “First things first,” he said.  “I haven’t eradicated it yet.”  He thought for a moment.  “I suppose I’d become a beekeeper,” he said at last.  “I’ve always wanted to.  I’d probably continue my scientific pursuits, but in a less focused way – more time for fun experiments instead of obsessing over this Plague.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... uh... I know it's been ridiculously long, but I CAN EXPLAIN!   
> *throws chapter at readers*   
> *runs and hides*

The next time Sherlock accidentally set part of his castle on fire, John was in the library.  Sherlock came rushing in, covered in soot, wisps of smoke curling from his clothes, flames licking at his heels.  “Run,” he yelled, and John hesitantly took a few steps, still in shock, before Sherlock grabbed him around the waist and half-carried him to the open window.  He jumped through, landed in a large hydrangea, and rolled to his feet quickly enough to arrest John’s flight.  It was a rather romantic catch, even if Sherlock did stumble and fall on his back under John’s weight.  Particularly after John shifted atop him, and Sherlock looked at him with a faint smile, eyes glazed.      

Normally, this was the part of the narrative where the prince or princess told their savior “Thank you” with a hint of “I love you”.    

John said, “You complete idiot,” and punched him in the face. 

Fortunately, the fire didn’t spread too far, and the two soon returned to their quarters, Sherlock sulkily nursing his bruise. 

…

It wasn’t that John didn’t notice the way his companion’s eyes lit up whenever John entered the room, or that it never crossed his mind that his companion was incredibly attractive.  He just… didn’t care, he told himself.  It didn’t matter.  Besides, Mary was waiting for him back at the hospital.  They weren’t married, but he’d always thought it’d be a foregone conclusion – it was the most convenient situation he could think of. 

… 

It was midsummer before their lives were disturbed. 

“Wiggin!” John exclaimed.  “I just paid you!” 

“It’s no about tha’, aye,” Wiggin protested.  “I need ter talk wit Shezza.” 

‘Shezza’ was downstairs sawing at his violin, having just finished sawing at a femur.  He placed the instrument carefully in its case before turning and raising an eyebrow imperiously at Wiggin.  It wasn’t quite as intimidating without his coat – John had noted some time ago that Sherlock did a certain thing with his coat collar and his cheekbones and Sherlock had gotten extremely flustered and flailed his arms about.  He imagined the man wasn’t used to people figuring what it was that gave him the imposing look.  Perhaps John was getting better at deductions. 

“So this girl wants tae buy two corpses offa me,” Wiggin said in a rush as soon as they were all seated, “n I sed ‘two ‘undred please’ n she went like that tae me ‘am wit Sherlock’ n ad never seen her before so I told her to wait please and came to ask yer – she wit you?” 

Sherlock frowned, leaning his elbows on his knees and pressing his fingers together in front of his lips.  “Describe her.” 

“She wuz short, aye.  Dark, like you, Shezza.  Real pretty.  Had this splotch on ‘er shoulder.”  Wiggin gestured at his own shoulder, indicating roughly. 

Sherlock’s look darkened. 

“Do you know her?”  John asked. 

“It’s… within the realm of possibility.”  He looked back at Wiggin.  “Don’t give her my rates.  But do tell her where to find me; I’ll open the doors for her.” 

The tall black double-doors opened by the same means as the gates:  Through a series of winches and gears that operated from the inside to push the doors open; the gates, connected through a set of underground levers, followed suit. 

Within the next fifteen minutes, a young woman strolled through the gates, her jet-black hair piled elegantly on her head, a stark contrast with the rather poor quality of clothing she was wearing.  She looked around imperiously before walking through the doors without hesitation. 

She didn’t even flinch when they closed behind her, John noted.  Even he hadn’t managed to suppress that reflex. 

“Irene,” said Sherlock, gliding into the entryway, still in shirtsleeves.  “Long time no see.” 

“Such a pity,” the woman sighed.  “Imagine the innovations the world has been deprived of without our collaborations.  We could have done so much together, Sherlock.” 

John felt a pulse of annoyance at her words.  Who _was_ she, to barge into their lives and claim to be an indispensable ally to Sherlock? 

“Really?” Sherlock said coolly.  “I seem to recall said alliances bursting into flames after we quarreled and went our separate ways.” 

“Yes, but our invention still _worked,_ didn’t it?” she said.  “I finished it-”

“- with _my_ designs-”

“- and it’s changed hundreds of lives for the better.”  She smiled calmly at a quietly fuming Sherlock, looking at him with the impassivity of a Greek statue. 

The staring match was quickly interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Hudson. 

“Sherlock,” she scolded.  “You didn’t tell me you had a visitor.  Where are your manners?  Invite her in!” 

“She’s not a _guest,_ Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock, but his protest went unheard while Irene flashed a winning smile at Mrs. Hudson and allowed herself to be led into a lounge, Sherlock and John disgruntledly following suit. 

“Tea, dear?” Mrs. Hudson beamed. 

Irene smiled back charmingly.  “I would love some.  Do you have _tie guan yin_?” 

Mrs. Hudson’s smile shrank a bit and she turned to Sherlock in confusion. 

“She means Earl Grey,” he supplied.  Irene huffed. 

“I most certainly do _not_ -”

Sherlock cut her off with a smile.  “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  I would love a cup of English Breakfast Tea myself, two sugars, no milk.  John?” 

“Er… black, thanks.”  He smiled tensely at the housekeeper, who bustled away. 

“So what _have_ you been up to all these years?” Irene asked after Mrs. Hudson arrived with the tea, leaning backwards in her chair. 

“Nothing that concerns you,” Sherlock said shortly. 

“Really.”  Irene breathed, sitting upright and resting her chin on her hand.  “Only I’ve heard the most _marvelous_ rumors –”

“You can’t possibly be here to _blackmail_ me,” Sherlock scoffed.  “Don’t you know anything about the people who live here?  They’ll never believe an explanation for my cure as mundane as one that involves no magic.” 

“Not the ordinary people, no,” Irene said loftily.  “You have to find the right listener.  But you’re right on one count.”  She sipped at her tea delicately, smiling.  “I’m not here to blackmail you.”  Her look turned innocent, guileless.  “I’m here to compare notes.” 

Sherlock leaned forward as well, steepling his fingers, brow furrowing.  “Tempting,” he said softly.  “Very tempting.”  He sat up straight and laid one arm flat on the table.  “But how do I know you won’t use my notes to eradicate the Plague and take all the credit?” 

“Why, Sherlock!”  Irene said.  She seemed ready to deny even considering such a thing, but something in Sherlock’s expression must have stopped her.  “It’s like you said – who’d believe me?  A peasant girl, coming up with the final cure before the powerful sorcerer who stopped the Plague the first time around?  What a story!” 

“Final cure?” said Sherlock.  “What do you mean by that?” 

The mischievous smile was back.  “You know the hopeless cases?  The ones being quarantined, with no hope of survival?  There are new ones every now and then, when small outbreaks of the Plague appear, and they’ll send for you, and you’ll look at them and say, sorry, can’t do anything, I’m useless-”

“I _know_ what the hopeless cases are,” Sherlock interrupted. 

“Well.  Then surely you know that a final cure would involve curing _them_.” 

“Hardly,” said Sherlock.  “There’s no point.  A far better alternative, one I’m working on, would be to prevent these outbreaks from occurring.  It would be more efficient.  The Plague would never trouble our people again.” 

“Hang on,” John said.  Sherlock started, having completely forgotten John was in the room.  Irene turned to him interestedly.  John felt uncomfortably like prey under her gaze.  He cleared his throat. 

“Wouldn’t that mean the people still under quarantine would die, though?  If there’s a way to save them, shouldn’t you be, you know, saving them?” 

Sherlock sighed.  “As always, John, you see; you do not _observe_.  There may be deaths, but those deaths are outweighed by the number of lives saved by pursuing prevention instead of-”

“Instead of proving I’m still better than you,” Irene interrupted.  “Isn’t that what this is, Sherlock?  You’re afraid I’ll beat you again.  If we exchange notes, and I still reach a breakthrough before you –”

“Stop trying to _goad_ me,” Sherlock growled. 

Irene smiled, placing her empty teacup back on the table and standing up.  “I’ll be in touch,” she said.  “Do let me know if you’ve changed your mind, won’t you?” 

…

Later that night, John and Sherlock relaxed in the study by the crackling fireplace.  Or, rather, John relaxed in a squashy armchair while Sherlock paced back and forth, flipping through pages of a book of medical notes he’d taken while studying the Seaworthy Plague, without being able to read a word. 

“Something on your mind?” John said, almost teasingly. 

“I don’t know why she’s here,” Sherlock said in a rush.  “I don’t know when she came over, or what she knows, or what she’s trying to do.  Last I knew of her she was still in my homeland, gloating over having beaten me on our last exam.  She’s the only one to ever beat me – she might be smarter than me, she’s certainly smarter than you, and equally certainly up to nothing good for either of us.” 

John couldn’t help feeling a sense of bitterness at Sherlock’s assessment.  “I see,” he said, striving to keep his tone mild. 

Sherlock looked down at him, surprised.  “Oh, no,” he said.  “Don’t be like that, John.  I didn’t mean – you are _marvelous_ , John.  You are _indispensable_.  You are the finest physician I have met in all my journeys through this kingdom.” 

John snorted.  “Finer than _her?”_

Sherlock frowned.  “She’s not a physician, John.  It would be an unreasonable comparison, albeit wholly lopsided in your favor, if one were to assess you based solely on your merits in that department.  Unless you meant-”

“It’s fine,” John cut him off hastily.  “Thanks.  You can stop now.” 

Sherlock seemed unconvinced, but turned back to his notes, and John let out a quiet sigh of relief. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for making Wiggin a caricature from Sco’ish twitter. I had to share my horrible bastardization of the dialect with the world.


	7. Chapter 7

To my dear readers, 

I'm really sorry about this, but it doesn't feel like this fic's going to be updated again. I think I might have lost steam on the editing/rewriting process.  
The original, unedited version of it is up, though, if you want to see how it ends. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14402130 

Thanks a million,  
\- NineOfSpades

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Thirteenth Prince original version](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14402130) by [NineOfSpades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineOfSpades/pseuds/NineOfSpades)




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